Call it What You Want, But it Isn't Love
by Nyaire
Summary: Set during Salamandastron... has to do with Klitch... only one chapter as of right now. Um. Read and find out! Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The sun shimmered low in the sky, a blazing ball of fire dappling the waters of the horizon. Klitch relaxed, basking in the rays of gilded light that shone down upon his glossy tan fur. Idly, the weasel stretched out upon the sand, enjoying the warm sensation of an evening sea breeze and the general tranquility that an escape from horde life could bring.

His eyes were just beginning to close as a ferret strode up. Goffa, unlike his companion, shifted nervously back and forth. Ever-anxious, he gnawed at his lip, not daring to break the silence and arouse the anger of Klitch with the news he brought.

Klitch glanced lazily at his minion, who twitched and fidgeted even more under the blue-eyed gaze. The weasel stretched languidly, yawned, and repositioned himself on the warm sand. He couldn't be bothered to acknowledge Goffa; what was the bastard doing here anyway? He'd been sent out with the foraging party hours earlier.

Goffa finally spoke. "K-klitch?" he stammered reluctantly.

The weasel rolled his eyes; hadn't he made it clear enough that he wished to be left alone?

"Yes, Goffa?" he responded condescendingly. "What is it?"

"Er--ahh, the Master wants to see yer, he told me y'd be out here, I'm sorry fer-- "

"He wants to see me--about what?" questioned Klitch in a particularly unconcerned voice.

"Er, well , y'see, ah… word's gotten 'round to yer father that you been--ah, eh, that you've paid a certain bitch ter--w'l, that is…" he trailed off miserably.

"One of the camp whores has been talking, is that it?" Klitch's voice had become sharper, and his ears pricked. He got to his feet quickly and strode off. Goffa followed at a distance.

The sunset painted the sky gold and pink by the time they arrived at the camp. Klitch was in no great hurry to answer his father's call; there were other priorities to be seen to. He made his way through the horde until he reached his tent.

Slipping inside, Klitch rummaged around in his bedding until he found several small apples, a smooth purple stone and a necklace of abalone shells. He stuffed these into a rough leather pouch at his belt and emerged from the tent in a hurried manner. He had business to settle.

Taking care to ensure that Feragho was not near, the young weasel skirted the edges of the horde secretively until he had arrived at his destination. The last golden rays of sun disappeared below the horizon as Klitch darted towards a small, slight figure who sat under a scrap of faded canvas that served her as a dwelling.

"Whelk!" he rasped hoarsely to the figure, who whipped around suddenly. "Whelk, it's me!"

Whelk was a young stoat, about Klitch's age. Wearing only an ill-fitting, ragged tunic, she was the image of squalor itself. A filthy gray rag, embroidered with faded pink flowers, kept her long, frizzy, oily black headfur from spilling over her deep brown eyes.

"Y'have m'payment, dontcher?" she asked suspiciously, brown eyes narrowing at the sight of the empty-handed weasel standing before her. Pretty, she was, if one looked past all the dirt and grime, but every bit as unpleasant and dishonest as the males.

Klitch crossed his arms and spoke in a tone of deadly calm. Though he was quiet, anger emanated from his being.

"You've been talking, Whelk. When I first went to you, I made you promise not to say a word. Not a single word! You agreed, then. You've broken that promise."

Whelk smiled a horrible smile. "A promise, what th' hell's a promise ter me?" she asked, laughing shrilly and exposing sharp little rows of teeth. "Did you _honestly _think I was going to keep this a secret, fool? Has it been any different for others of your status?"

In that instant, Klitch's hand went to a knife tucked into his belt, and he drew it menacingly. Whelk retreated nervously into the shadows, cowering and holding up a paw for mercy. Klitch had caught her unarmed. "P-please, n-n-no, eheh, just jokin' there, sir!" she babbled nervously.

Klitch's manner had become more tense, and his voice took on a heated tone. Brandishing the knife threateningly at the stoatmaid, he muttered through gritted teeth, "_You, _Whelk, are a lowly prostitute. _I_, on the other hand, am the son of the leader of this horde! If you value your life, shut yer yap--now and forever! Or I'll do it for you!"

He took a step forward, yelling the last sentence. Several nearby soldiers turned to look, but Klitch paid them no mind. He grabbed the trinkets from his waist-pouch and hurled them to the ground. "Here, take your payment! But in the future, if you dare to talk again, I'll have no part of you!"

The young weasel stalked off in high dudgeon, back to his tent for some much-needed cooling off.

Unfortunately, Feragho had beaten him there. As Klitch neared the area, he noticed his father leaned up idly against a nearby rock, combing his tail. The older weasel watched as his son drew nearer, mentally planning his words.

Feragho continued to groom himself as he spoke. Betraying no emotion, he said simply, "I sent Goffa out to get you at least two hours earlier. Where were you?"

"That's for me to know and you not to find out," Klitch replied smartly. Feragho raised his head slightly and allowed the delicate wooden comb to drop from his hand. He decided to make his point, and dropped all notions of calm from his manner.

"Look here, whelp. I'm fairly sure I know where you were as it is, and I'm in no mood to take any shit from you!" Feragho continued patronizingly as he saw his son's ears redden with anger.

"I'm not sure you realize, though, young one, that we've no time to mess around with--with the likes of that scum-of-the-earth whore you've been providing business to. You see that mountain? Inside it, that hellborn badger and his longeared hares wait. They're our enemies, we're plotting against them! In times like this, I've come to expect better from you! You ought to be devoting all effort to conquering that place with me, _not _to banging filthy temptresses and ruining your reputation as an up-and-coming leader! Do you understand, you green recruit, you?"

Klitch sneered. "Not like you haven't been doing the same as me, old one!"

_Aye, _thought Feragho, _I have. I'm just better at keeping it a secret, that's all!_

Fuming, the young weasel continued. "How do _you _know my whereabouts when you're not paying attention? How do you know I'm not… err… making plans of my own, say?"

Feragho smirked unpleasantly. "Oh, a few coins to the captains and I have eyes everywhere, son. Your old father has seen it all and heard it too."

With those words, the blue-eyed assassin turned his back and walked away, leaving Klitch, sputtering and angry, to be alone with his thoughts and the crash of waves on the shore.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Goffa awoke from a half-sleep in the middle of the night. Restless, he prowled stealthily around the camp, jumping at the slightest noises and searching until he found Klitch's tent. He pulled the canvas flap back quietly, allowing a thin sliver of moonlight to illuminate the weasel's sleeping form.

"Ah, if only 'e knew…" Shaking his head, Goffa gazed longingly at Klitch, wondering how much longer he could stand being trapped in a glass bowl--so close, yet so far away.

_Damn, he's so… beautiful… Naw, what the devil's got inna me? _

he reprimanded himself mentally. _I must be goin' soft! Ain't supposed t' love no one, least of all the boss's son! Gad, mebbe it's somethin' I et earlier… _

Suddenly, Klitch stirred in his sleep, and his eyelids fluttered open for a split second. Goffa bolted, panic rising in his chest as he scampered back to the safety of his tent. He tried to dash inside quickly, but tripped over an unforeseen rock and went flying. The ferret froze on the ground, ears pricked for any noise, silently cursing the fates that had put the damned rock there in the first place.

After several minutes had passed and he was sure that not a soul had been awakened, Goffa slunk noiselessly into his tent, berating himself for his mindless blunder.

Hours later, as the first light of dawn bathed the land in a golden light, Klitch awoke. He stretched lazily, reaching for his yellow tunic. Combing through his headfur and meticulously preening his whiskers, he wondered idly what the day would hold.

A sudden scrap of memory from the previous night floated to the surface of the weasel's mind; curious as to its origin, he fixated his thoughts solely upon it until more came flooding back to him.

There had been a figure standing outside his tent last night, looking in on him--a figure who ran away upon seeing that he had woken… Klitch recalled a brief glimpse of blue fabric patched with yellow before the onlooker had scrambled away, footsteps fading into the velvety night.

Who had it been? No, the better question was, who on Earth would be creeping around to his tent at such an hour, just to watch him while he slept? _Odd_, the weasel thought to himself. Was his safety in danger, did he have reason to fear? Might someone be plotting against him?

Then again, Klitch considered, perhaps he had simply been seeing things. The darkness was a haven for the products of a wild imagination and half-open eyes. Yes, in the daylight, the entire matter seemed silly. Black wraiths, strange figures, he was sure now that he had been imagining it all… _How foolish of me, the son of a warlord… _he thought to himself, heading out to forage for breakfast.

The day grew hot as the sun passed high into the sky, and Klitch removed his shirt. He fanned himself with a broad leaf and made for the direction of the camp, seeking shade. Midday was scorching hot in the dunes on a summer afternoon, and the weasel found he was not used to the unforgiving climate.

Klitch stopped suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He had the strange sensation that someone was following him…

He whipped around suspiciously; yet nothing confronted him save for miles of sand dunes and the glimmering ocean waters. Feeling a bit of a fool, Klitch shrugged to himself and moved on, half-wondering if he was losing his mind. _That's twice today I've let imagination get the better of me, _he thought disapprovingly to himself, glad no one had been around to witness his actions. _I really ought not to make a practice of paying heed to such impulses, it won't serve me well now or ever. Perchance this heat has tendencies toward making one behave oddly…_

Panting, Goffa peeked out cautiously from behind a dune. He looked around; Klitch had gone. The ferret breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that he had not been observed. He slipped off, taking a roundabout way back to the encampment so as not to run into anybody, least of all Klitch.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Klitch crawled sleepily into his tent. The first few hours of his day had been pleasantly lazy, albeit humid and hot. However, as soon as he had returned to the horde, Feragho had sent him off to deal with several minor miscreants too unimportant to be disciplined by the Assassin himself. Thusly, Klitch's afternoon had become rather eventful as he attempted to track down and punish the insubordinates Crowfur and Scratchtail, two moronic, low-ranking rats known for haplessly disrupting camp life in a variety of ways.

The weasel ran a paw gingerly over a long scratch on his arm, sincerely hoping that the next time he cornered Crowfur, the rat would not be armed. Shucking off his clothing, Klitch flopped down and covered himself with his ragged blanket. Frogs chorused gently from the dunes, lulling the weasel into a sleep filled with twisted, strange dreams of days past.

A long, gauzy blue dress. The scent of summer air in a woodland. He was scarcely two seasons old, so young and innocent. A beautiful face, deep brown eyes, flowers entwined in long, dark wavy hair…Was this his mother? He had little recollection of her at all. Klitch turned to grasp at her hand, but she faded along with the rest of the scene, and now he was standing amidst the carnage of a battlefield… his first time fighting. He was older now, but not much. Bodies everywhere, blood spattered on the ground in horrid, haunting patterns. He had been a part of this. It was he who had to helped separate families and destroy lives and paint the land red and suddenly it was all too much and his head spun and his stomach heaved. Things were changing now, the surroundings twisting and turning, and then the army was on the march and Klitch, older and tougher, was at its head and reveling in the same barbaric glory that not so long ago had seemed so horribly wrong. What had changed? What… the dream blurred again, now he was alone and a huge mountain stood in his way. A voice called his name, but Klitch ignored it, and suddenly there was a noise somewhere behind him and… and…

His eyes opened. Klitch listened; there it was again. He burrowed further into his blanket, squirming slightly.

_That noise, why won't it go away? Who is it, I need to concentrate, need to get past the mountain… _Suddenly he felt something rustle his fur. The weasel's eyes shot open, and suddenly he realized there was a shadow cast across the ground! Bumping into various personal belongings in the darkness, he scuttled hurriedly backwards on all fours into the corner of his tent, breath ragged in his throat and fear rising in his heart, saying a quick prayer to whatever higher power there was to please forgive him for all the terrible things he'd done if these were to be his last moments and—

And suddenly the shadow was gone, with the swish of a tail and panicked footsteps. Klitch didn't hesitate, but instead jumped into his pants grabbed his knife. In seconds he was hot on the heels of whoever had dared to disturb his peace.

Adrenaline rising, the weasel bounded through camp, wind blowing in his fur and ears pricked, following the sound of panting breaths. Klitch could see the unfortunate's back now; he was gaining on the bastard. Putting on a savage burst of speed, Klitch raced forward and in one swift leap tackled him to the ground.

Standing and roughly turning the miscreant over, he started to demand, "What the devil--"

Suddenly, though, he stopped. Words vanished in his mouth as he locked eyes with none other than Goffa.

The latter of the two started to back away, but Klitch brandished his knife and warned, "You make one move, ferret, and I'll skin you!"

"I suppose I should never have trusted scum like you. To think that I kept you so close, for so long… tell me, what _were _you planning for me tonight?"

A shake of the head and an incomprehensible stutter told the weasel he would have a bit of work to do. Advancing so that he had his charge backed up against a tall rock, he tickled Goffa's throat with the tip of the blade, hissing, "Tell me!"

"It… but…"

The blade pressed against his neck, and it took all that was in Goffa's power not to gulp in terror. There was no way out, he had to say it, it was either this or death and he wasn't willing to surrender to Hellgates and fuck, oh fuck, in a minute he would be saying it and—

"I was goin' t' kiss yer!" he blurted desperately, more loudly than he would have wished. His cheeks burned with a hot sensation, and he collapsed against the rock, face in his hands. "I was goin' t' kiss yer, fuck it…" he muttered again, softly.

The knife dropped from Klitch's paw. He took a step back and brushed himself off. Words escaped the weasel for a moment, then found their way back as always with one as quick-witted as he was. "Goffa," he inquired mildly, a smile playing on his features, "are you _desperate?_"

The ferret looked up. "Desp'rate? Aye… aye, 'course I am, what'd y'think?" he agreed hurriedly, snatching the excuse that was being dangled under his nose. He was unprepared to answer what came next.

"The why on Earth didn't you sneak in on one of the _women?_" Much to Goffa's horror, Klitch seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the whole thing.

"I… I… women?" the ferret stuttered.

"Yes, women, you witless buffoon! You know the ones; Whelk, Deore, Malin, Sangue?" Pausing, Klitch sneered, and then spat, "Why the devil did it have to be _me, _you idiot?"

Goffa was entirely trapped, and he knew it. As he had once heard a far more intelligent creature put it, "Out is really the only way out, eh?"

Breathing deeply, he prepared himself for what he knew would not be received well.

"B'cause… it 'ad to be you b'cause yer… yer th' most beautiful thing I done seen in a long time," he whispered softly, meeting Klitch's stunning blue eyes with his plain green ones. A dumbfounded expression crossed the weasel's face, and Goffa knew that what he'd just said was something that could never be undone.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

A/N to all readers who may be dirty-minded: Ignore the obvious metaphor when you come to the 'sword' part… heh… well, what was I supposed to say? It was inevitable; what other words was I supposed to use? le sigh Yes, the wrongness of the wording did occur to my teenage-girl brain. But, point is… get your minds out of the gutter like I'm at least trying to, and enjoy the story for what it is! ;)

If the whole camp hadn't known of last night's events by halfway through next morning, Klitch would have been surprised indeed. Things went as expected, though, and as the day drew on he despaired more and more.

The weasel did not realize at first how much better he had fared than Goffa, who was bearing the brunt of the inevitable mocking.

Klitch looked on from a distance as several rats aimed stones at the unarmed ferret, yelling all manner of rude and crass things. He was beginning to feel sorry, if only a small bit, for his lackey turned unrequited lover. Knowing that half the horde probably engaged in the things they were shunning him for only made it that much worse. Klitch wasn't about to defend Goffa, though. There were, after all, some things his pride wouldn't stand for.

Seeing the stones and insults being thrown, though… It just didn't seem right, and though Klitch's vermin instincts were nagging at him, he had a strange and sudden urge to throw his arm around Goffa's shoulder.

_The horde is supposed to have one common enemy, and that is the badger… dividing against each other will only serve to defeat the purpose Father and I have set in place, to conquer the mountain…_ Klitch attempted to convince himself that his feelings of pity were only common sense for a leader, and despite himself he began to move slowly toward where the soldiers stood.

Suddenly, though, something stopped him. Something that wasn't necessarily a silly little mental warning. Instead, a sharp piece of rock stung his arm. He turned to the rats, who were guffawing unpleasantly.

Klitch's eyes widened, then narrowed in anger. This was no longer a matter of sticking up for others… no, now that he was involved he had the perfect excuse to shove some discipline into those damn rats without looking like a sentimental fool.

Paw at the dagger in his belt, he advanced on the three of them with a new confidence, ignoring the stinging in his arm and the fact that the weapons they brandished were rusty and much larger and sharper than his own. He could handle these morons, could teach them to respect their betters… he was sure of it.

The first rat lurched forward unexpectedly, and Klitch barely had time to parry before the second was behind him, spearpoint tickling his back dangerously.

_All right, maybe I'm not so sure now, _Klitch admitted to himself.

The third snickered, prompting a snarled response from a most definitely on-edge weasel. "_Do _you by chance realize who you're menacing, idiot?"

The rat, Gralt, leered unpleasantly back at him, and loudly belched before stating quite plainly and nonchalantly, "Why, o' course I do, yer 'ighness! 'Else, why would I be standin' here insultin' yer? And 'ey, while I be's about it, is it true you went an' banged that thar ferret hard las' night? 'Cos Blearbane 'ere," Gralt pointed vaguely at the leader rat, "sez it is!"

Something within Klitch snapped. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the rats' insubordination, maybe it was the fact that they and their stupidity had been insulting him and someone he considered an ally almost nonstop for the past few minutes. Later, alone, he would rationalize that it probably was some combination of all three. But now was no time for petty thoughts.

Whipping out his knife, the weasel snarled from deep within his throat, spinning quickly sideways to avoid the rat positioned behind him. He descended slightly into a fighting crouch, shoulders hunched and teeth gleaming. The blue eyes that had beamed with a happy gloss less than an hour ago now shone with a carnal savagery, and their edges were tinged with an eerie, almost ghostly red.

However, this display of anger deflated the rats' confidence only ever so slightly. Blearbane faced Klitch diagonally, an evil grin spreading across his scrawny features.

"If there wuz ever a time ter get kicked outter this damned mizzuble 'orde, it's now," he muttered to his fellows. Following Blearbane's hand motions, Gralt and the other rat, Friskut, fanned out on either side of their leader. They surrounded the weasel on three sides.

Klitch knew by now that his actions had been dreadfully foolish. There was really no escaping these stupid bastards, though; they didn't give a damn about authority and they weren't afraid to show it. Where was Goffa to distract them? He didn't seem to give a damn, and the whole reason Klitch had approached the rats in the first place had been to ward them away from his minion. The weasel's thoughts were a jumble of nonsense; he had lost logic. How was this different from any other skirmish he'd been in? Why was he suddenly so scared?

_Could be what's happened lately. I'm feeling crazy. Perhaps I should appeal to them for mercy… or attempt to escape?_

_Hell, I can't just run away from the imbeciles like a frightened little pansy. What will Father think? What will __**everybody **__think? First Whelk, then the incident with Goffa-- soon I'll be the camp laughingstock!_

_They'll kill me if I don't turn tail and flee, though. The whole horde's been restless lately, waiting for the badger to make a move or Feragho to outline a battle._

_But…Klitch, son of Feragho the Assassin, running away from a pack of unintelligent, filthy, low-ranking rats. What kind of a rising warlord am I?_

Friskut's lance came whizzing from a few feet away, interrupting Klitch's frenzied mental state. As the three began to close in, he suddenly forgot all about his reputation, all about who he was and what everybody would think; hell, his reputation within the horde was already beyond damaged, so why not wreck it completely?, he rationalized as he sprinted away frantically across the sand and away to any given place that wasn't where he was at this moment.

He glanced behind him to see if the rats had given chase; good, there was at least a four-hundred yard distance between himself and the trio of imbeciles. He'd deal with them later, after he'd regained some face; for now, he was focused upon finding Goffa and asking the bastard why he hadn't been there to back him up.

As Klitch wandered the expanses of sand and dune-grass in the late afternoon, hearing only his footsteps and the crash of waves on the sand, his thoughts drifted and he wondered what on Earth would become of him now. He'd lost the respect he once commanded, as had his father, though not to nearly the same degree.

He'd been shaken by what had just happened. Sure, the rats would be punished, and sure, they'd probably either be cast out or die painful deaths at the hands of Feragho or a captain, but Klitch knew there were others like them, others who openly mocked the face of authority, not to mention anyone who was the subject of much-inflated rumors. They threatened the very core of organization in their society.

He gnawed his lip nervously, envisioning the disasters that awaited an un-unified army. Defeat in battle, loss of lands gained in conquest, bloody rebellion… the list dragged on. Klitch sat down on a dune to ponder what trials his future might hold.

A sudden sound floated by on the wind. Klitch tensed, keen ears focused intently, tracing it to its source. He got up, taking a step forward in what he perceived to be its direction. Realizing that the rats might have returned to finish him off, Klitch drew his dagger quickly, more than half-expecting one of them to leap out at him with a wild yell. His heart thudded in his chest.

But no, the sound was soft and unlike the rustle made by a sneaking creature. As Klitch concentrated, he was able to make out small, choking sobs from nearby. Taking in his surroundings, Klitch noticed a dark-tipped tail poking out from the opposite side of a small dune. He gasped, heart still pounding rapidly.

"Goffa?" he called softly

There was no reply, so he made his way around the dune carefully until he stood next to the ferret.

Seeing that he was not alone, Goffa scuttled backwards slightly, not wanting Klitch to notice the tears dripping profusely down his whiskers. A small, morose sniff gave his last hope of cover away, however, and he turned to regard Klitch, who in kind surveyed him with a slightly perplexed expression.

The two faced each other awkwardly, and for a few seconds both were at a loss for words. Klitch, who'd been prepared to berate Goffa for deserting him in the midst of a scuffle, now felt that perhaps he ought not to unleash a tirade upon the poor ferret's head. And Goffa, who was already humiliated beyond belief, was trying desperately to read the emotions behind Klitch's impassive blue-eyed gaze, so that he would not make a complete fool of himself if he gathered enough courage to break the silence first.

Fortunately, Klitch did it for him, stuttering hesitantly, "G-Goffa… I…," He paused to clear his throat, fishing desperately around for something, anything, to say.

Goffa put his hands behind his back and stared at the ground, anxiously twiddling his thumbs, and at last Klitch mustered his bravery and quickly babbled out the words he had been struggling to formulate. They twisted themselves in his mouth and ran together, tying devilish knots in his tongue until he felt like a complete and utter idiot, but he continued on obliviously.

"G-Goffa, I'm so sorry, fuck it, you just, today's just been so, you know--blast, I _do _sound completely incompetent. Well, w-what I mean is, about last night, 'hem, I… I… think we can, er, j-just… still—still associate with each other, and forget that—I mean, not forget it altogether, see, but… oh, I really d-d-_don't_ hate you or anything, and I—oh, you know what I'm trying to say, dammit!"

Goffa looked up at the weasel and raise one eyebrow with trepidation. He spoke with much caution. "Th-think I do, mate. See, I… I w's a fool, last night. I never shoulda…"

He closed his eyes. "I never shoulda told youse somethin' the likes o' like that. S-somethin' y' can't… handle if yer, y'know…"

"Perhaps, the son of a horde leader, with responsibilities and burdens that will always far exceed your own?" There was a tinge of humor in Klitch's voice.

"W'l that there works, yeh," Goffa agreed, not wanting to divulge what he had been about to say and bring about a topic that would most certainly cause mutual embarrassment. He nodded, stepping away slightly. Klitch noticed that tear-streaks down the ferret's cheeks had dried, and he looked as Klitch felt at that moment. Immensely relieved that what was said had been said, and the matter was as closed as it would ever be.

The two stepped away from each other. "Well, I've got other matters to attend to," Klitch announced decisively, referring to the fate of the rats Blearbane, Gralt and Friskut. He'd make a public example of them, he thought… nothing too painful, but something to remember and remember well. An ear here, a tailtip there… already his thoughts were returning to the endless cycle of backbiting and revenge that was the very definition of living in a horde.

Life might not have been quite back to normal, but if he considered for a while, he realized that it never really was, was it?


End file.
